A sense of inspiration - Brevet Cymru 400km Audax 2015

Picture the scene. A community centre in a small village just outside Crickhowell, Wales. It's 12.30AM. After midnight. Those assembled inside are a mixture of the weary and the supportive. All are hushed, it is deep within a residential area after all.

Outside the temperature is dropping again, despite it being early May. Yes. Spring, and a Bank Holiday weekend to boot. And the rain is now starting to tumble out of brooding and foreboding skies. The weary are all shuffling around, eating a mixture of jelly babies, pasta soup (but it still doesn't feel enough) and necking coffee, tea, anything hot they can get their hands on.

No-one really wants to go back outside. But we have to if we want to finish this 400km Audax, the Brevet Cymru. The thirty or so "fast riders" went through a couple of hours ago. Behind us there are approximately 130 intrepid battlers either fighting the horrendous south-easterly wind, the rain, the mountains, and their urge to give up. Apparently about 50 have already lost that battle and are heading home on trains or in taxis. The remaining 80 battle on. Battle with the weather, the hills and the seductive parts of their own minds. Whispering, urging - "give up".

 

 
The small group of about half a dozen in Llangattock community centre  then gets smaller as one rider finally packs. He mentioned it at Llandovery, second time around, and now bails into a cab, heading back to Chepstow in warmth and comfort.

There is always the option of getting your head down here for a few hours on the sleep mats, it's "only" 65 km to the Arrivee after all, and there are still about 8 hours in which to complete within the time limit. A few are taking that option, the preceding 341 km finally taking their toll.

So I head out into the night. Alone. As I have been, more or less, all day. But not really alone. After last week's shenanigans (great word) Peter and I were very clear - I would not ride at his pace so he shouldn't wait for me. It was only when I got to the end I found out I had overtaken him when he was stopped, and he had subsequently been forced by injury to drop out before Llandovery. The first time.

But not really alone. Although I could go miles and miles without seeing another rider, in the context of over 21 hours on the road, I met and chatted "frequently" to people, as well as in the café stops - Llandovery (twice), Newquay (Wales not Cornwall), outside the Coop in Tregaron and in the late-night community hall. But there is more to Audax than that. People are universally kind, friendly, and mutually encouraging. I'm a pretty introverted person, so I think I fit in pretty well with the quiet nature of the genre.

Hay Control - picture by Richard Clemens
 

But don't be fooled. There are some truly awesome riders on these events. I'm writing this two days later and I'm still sore and tired. For some seasoned Audax veterans, a 400km ride seems like a café ride for them, they were out yesterday and will do a couple of 200km in the week. But they are so modest you would never spot them unless you saw the glint in their eyes and the steel in their bikes.

Café in Llandovery - lunchtime - by Richard Clemens
 

And the people that organise these events are in another league too. Mark Rigby and his team not only organise a route and great controls at just the right places, but they do so in a way that reflects a generosity of spirit you don't see much these days. And for the fraction of the cost of a sportive, with none of the silly competitiveness. I mean none, even from me.

Sustenance at Newquay - all my own work!

Parts of the ride were a joy. Parts were a real struggle. Which was which depended on me, or more probably my blood sugar levels. The long downhills were all good though, and I even enjoyed one or two of the climbs. I think there was about 15000 feet of climbing all told. I can't tell you exactly because my Garmin started doing silly things near Usk, and packed up altogether on the last hill. But for once I couldn't give a stuff. I'll get my Brevet card back soon, with its stamps and timed signatures. Proof of passage.

At 3AM, in the teeth of a gale, and under the deluge, as I ground up the last big climb before Chepstow, there was no euphoria, not a whiff of triumph, I was just relieved to get to the end in one piece with a functioning bike, bright lights (my brilliant dynamo certainly works!) and awake.

And, despite the weather, I can confirm, that Wales is officially beautiful.

My bike waits for the return leg
 

I put it there with a magic marker

Today, (well technically yesterday since I am writing this at 12.16AM) I rode the White Horse Challenge for the sixth time in six years. For what it's worth it was my 4th fastest time of those six. Bearing in mind that for one I was a sportive novice (2010) and another (2013) I was recovering from the combined effects of harrowing grief and bronchitis, you can effectively say this was my worst performance. But is was also the worst weather, a strong, cold northerly wind for the second half, and paradoxically some of my climbing performances, including the timed one of Dragon Hill, were my best ever.

A third of the way through I was amazingly on track to break five hours, although I had ridden full gas for 100 minutes to get there. Then the combined effect of the wind, and fatigue from riding on my own because my so-called friends fucked off and left me after 10 minutes, meant I bombed in the second half.

Who knows if that would have been different had they stuck around? As for the reasons that brought it about, it's a kind of cycling moral relativism, born of shit communication, ambiguity, personal vanity and a complete disregard for the feelings of others. It is on my part anyway.

If you want to read a cycling description, I'm sure there will be one from The Cycling Mayor soon, or else look at my very amusing and entertaining blogs from year's gone by.

I am going to concentrate on the subject of my fury with my so-called friends. It's a very cleverly constructed piece of writing that lures you in to thinking I  occupy the moral high ground, whilst at the same time undermining my own argument and circling back round to an ambiguous conclusion at the end.

 

Psychologists sometimes posit that if you are angry with other people for a long time, that anger is actually a safer projection of your own lack of self-esteem onto others. For to truly face into your own faults is just too difficult and painful. Clearly in some cases, like today, that's drivel. Or in the case of my anger towards my father, 35 years ago, for his chaotic but functioning alcoholic lifestyle, that made me cross with him for 15 years. We all have addiction issues, he choose to channel them in a destructive way and I was right to be angry with him.

I don't bear grudges easily, I usually forget why I was annoyed, and having seen the Irish turn it into a national pastime, I feel there is little I can add to the oeuvre.

It's a basic moral truth of cycling that your friends communicate with you if they intend to drop you at the first opportunity in pursuit of their ambitions. Especially when those ambitions are in fact shared by a group which ostensibly purports to have a common bond of similar values and beliefs. Despite its mixed abilities.

Experiencing yet another episode of clearing up the mess my fourteen-year old son had made, I expressed my frustration and world-weariness of it all. He told me I was having a mid-life crisis, whereas I am just hacked off that he continues, despite prompting, training and moral blackmail, to create work for others. Clearly his fault. No it is. In any case I had my mid-life crisis in my thirties, and it included anti-depressants, self-harm and a lot of very expensive counselling. I am qualified to judge my own psychological history.

Anyway, I have got to the stage where I'm at my happiest when I'm being myself, and if people don't like that, I make allowances and try and be something else. Which generally makes me unhappy. Which is why I love certain people with whom I don't have to pretend, or even better, pussyfoot around their sensibilities and character flaws.

You know who you are.

I keep trying new things all the time, but in the end it will just come down to saying it as it is. Or as I see it. Which in the world of cycling moral relativism is the same thing as all moral viewpoints are conveniently valid and you can therefore consider yourself absolved. At a push.

When dealing with people, one of my colleagues argues that the Hokey-Cokey could very well be what it's all about (and I challenge you to watch this clip and not find it funny on at least three levels). But on this one single point, and nothing else, she is wrong. Dealing with people comes down to two things.

First, the unerring predictability of just about everybody. You just have to observe what they are really like over quite a short period. Especially me. Totally true to form and predictable reaction to a set of circumstances. And yes I am still cross. But I should really have seen it coming. It's like the Scorpion and the Frog. You have to accept people as they are.

Second, most people are completely unable to say what they really think, or else they are worried about how other people will react. This tends to lead to fudged e-mails, lots of text messages, assumptions that everybody knows the score. What's wrong with being assertive?

Yes I am cross, of course who wouldn't be? I should have asked the questions, insisted on a plan everyone knew about, especially me, because I have those skills, and should have predicted that level of (let's be charitable) single-mindedness.

I am most cross with myself for wasting my time on a ride I'm getting bored with, on a bunch of people who ran true to type but couldn't articulate clearly what they were going to do, when I could have predicted it, or clarified it in advance. More importantly, not being true to myself.

That doesn't mean I like you any less, or am going to stop giving you the benefit of my superior intelligence and insight, massive arrogance and inferior cycling ability. Or stop trying to keep up when I can be bothered. But I generally learn lessons quickly, and this one is now fully integrated within my moral compass.

And if you are sitting there nodding and agreeing then you have missed the point. You are not absolved. You will have to do that for yourselves in your  deluded moral relativist world.

The Green of the Valley

Easter. Oh how I love it when the vernal equinox gives way to the full moon and the first Sunday after heralds the second and third Bank Holidays of the year.

I've been totally convinced about the complete absence of a God from the Universe for a number of years now, although as with all my opinions I reserve the right to change that view. Particularly at moments of extreme stress, like at the end of play-off finals or towards the end of long Audax rides. Bristol Rovers fans take note, you too may soon be calling on a higher power. What date is your play-off final anyway?

But I do like a four-day week. And I like two of them back-to-back even more, because they give opportunities for combining family stuff, and cycling. Now there is a Rapha "archive" store in Shepton Mallet I know there is one place I can take Mrs Mendip Rouleur and leave with us both happy. Although junior will have to be bribed, but that's parenting for you.

I'd like to say something witty, intelligent or profound about the election. But I just can't be bothered. Martyn and I were chatting about this on our date on Friday night (although I eventually spent the night in a room with my bike, not him) at the Travelodge in Tewkesbury. It's a lot less glamorous than it sounds. All those centuries of struggle to get us all the vote, and what do we end up with? And I know someone out there is thinking, "well, if you don't like that lot, why don't you stand and do better?" or "well, you get the politicians you deserve!" etc. etc. depressingly etc.

It makes me whimsically nostalgic for the good old days of Screaming Lord Sutch. If only the mythical Mr Tarquin Fim Tim Lim Bim Fatang Fatang Ole Biscuit Barrel was a real person. This sums it up.

All that aside, here are a few pictures from Saturday's Audax over to Llandovery and back. Thankfully no wild weather this weekend, just empty sky, rolling hills, and nice people again. Bit of a habit this! I wish I had taken a picture of the canal.  If politicians spent more time restoring places like this in a practical way, instead of endless and pointless point-scoring, then our communities might have a bit more respect for them.

"I don't like new people coming"

I have a list of the top ten best famous people in the world. There are two qualifications to be on that list. You have to be worthy of my approval, and in some cases, adulation. And you have to be alive.

Stephen Covey was on that list until recently, but because he died he had to go.  I have just replaced Covey with my latest adulatory obsession, Stewart Lee. But because of the characterisation of his act, he sometimes refers to the character "Stewart Lee". I'm not sure which one has made it onto the list to be honest, and it has set up quite a self-indulgence in my mind, bordering on the pathetically delusional.

Today, I qualified to be a 16PF administrator. Don't all cheer at once. I suspect few people ever fail the assessment, but I gave it a good go. Safe to say I'm all primed to use it productively now though. But, when I was putting on my act for the assessor, I wondered if it was me getting the accreditation or the character of "me".

But then I said the most profound thing I have ever said in my life, although it too was probably said by my character and not by me. My own 16PF score, (and I know it's mine because the character of me has not completed a questionnaire)  indicates I trust people very easily. By some people's reckoning too easily and too often. But I'm not going to moderate that, I'm going to keep doing it, because it feels nicer for me.

The character of me, well he likes to be on the moral high ground while the person taking advantage thinks they have exploited me. Because morally, he's taking you to the cleaners. I'm a lot nicer to be around than my character, although I also claim to be really honest, and yet it's somehow a bit dishonest to be claiming to be honest while I also allow this character to stand in for me sometimes. Verging on moral bankcruptcy.

Before you dismiss all of this, have a think about all of the characters you are playing. I'm quite happy with mine, because every night we all have a virtual meeting to debrief the day and plan tomorrow. And it doesn't get much more authentic than that.

Maybe I could have the character of me on my list.

Happy again

It was called a radiogram. Probably very new technology in the sixties but confined to the dump years ago, and a collector's piece now of course.

I used to stack the records up, seven inch singles mostly, but occasionally L.P.s too. Play music all day long, The Beatles, Noel Harrison, Glen Campbell and others.

It gave me a love of music, surprisingly eclectic, probably because of that radiogram, listening to her records and dancing like only four-year-olds can.

This one sums it up today. I loved this. Still do.

No tears, no slush, just memory. And love of course.

Diversity

It has been a busy and somewhat frantic week. Lots of work on, squirrels in the loft and a couple of events on the bike planned for the weekend. Mad isn't it? Maybe I should start drinking again to cope. I somehow squeezed in a trip to watch West Ham lose to Chelsea as well. The last train home from London on Wednesday night had deposited me at Temple Meads at 1.30AM on Thursday morning, and a 6AM alarm call the next day meant I went into a long day of work with minimal sleep. Which left Friday.

The usual plan for a long day on the bike on a Saturday involves an early night on the Friday. But a series of complicated domestic and work logistics meant I didn't hit the bed in the glamorous Travelodge at Reading West (Eastbound) services until late. And it had been quite a rush to get there, usual boring stuff, what to pack, boring, boring, boring. Should have put it on Facebook. Just as I was leaving I did say to Mrs Mendip Rouleur that I had that strange feeling I'd forgotten something but couldn't remember what.

As I went to brush my teeth that night I realised that I'd forgotten dental floss. Not a huge disaster in the scheme of things, in fact, there will be people reading this who think that compared to their bomb-strewn lives I have little to moan about. Because someone in Ukraine reads this every week. And you'd be right. But humour me, blogs are after all a self-indulgent form of internal communication, generally filling a void in the writer's life for meaningful communication and self expression. Including this one.

Anyway, the floss thing was a bit irritating given my fastidiousness about teeth. But probably not hugely important.  If that was all I'd forgotten I thought I had got off quite lightly.

As I drifted off to sleep, I realised I had failed to pack my heart rate monitor. Now I'm quite compulsive when it comes to, umm, well I was going to say my exercise statistics. But actually I can be quite compulsive about a lot of things, and if you are still reading, you won't be if I listed them all. But I do like to be able to track how much effort I'm putting in, and in the absence of a power meter, my HRM is the best I have. Still, I consoled myself with the thought that it might be quite liberating not to have to worry about it, "ride on feel" and all that. I could always take the average of my last four 127 mile rides in windy conditions, on early Spring days and use that as a proxy figure.

But the real memory lapse was still to come, and come at me it did as I was drifting awake, in one of those moments when I wasn't quite sure what day it was, or where I was, that you get before you are properly awake. This woke me up. I had forgotten my chamois cream. Had I been a tough northerner with a leathery backside, this would not have been a problem. But I'm not. I'm a soft southern office-dwelling armchair-sitting idiot with soft, soft, skin. What's more, I had chosen this event to go back to shorts and leg warmers, meaning new parts of the area were going to be affected. Protection was needed.

Being a Travelodge there were none of those free moisturisers or anything similar in the hotel, and a trip to Smiths in the services, the only shop open at 6AM, yielded scant choice of anything that could do the job. Save two. The magazines aimed at a predominantly female demographic quite often have small giveaway tubes of cream or lotion attached. I had a choice.

The first was a large tube of lip-salve. It had potential, and given that it was designed to protect a delicate part of the body from the elements it was tempting. Except it was a bright red colour. Gloss-red, probably called something like "to die for red". Now I know that where I was going to put it, no-one would know. But there was something slightly disconcerting about putting women's bright red lip-salve where the sun doesn't shine in preparation for a cycling event.

So I opted for this instead.

As my good lady pointed out later that day, I could not have picked something so unsuited to the task, even though it purports to be dry-skin friendly. But at least I smelt nice. To begin with. I shouldn't have worried about the colour of the lip salve either, the end effect was the same, and I imagine a lot more painful. So much so that despite feeling OK this morning (not top of the world raring to go, but OK) I had to bail on my plan to ride down to North Petherton and do the Dunkery Dash Audax. I can barely sit in the afore-mentioned armchair, never mind a bike.

Instead of battling up to the top of Exmoor into a rainy headwind. I got to catch up on my sleep and my self-absorption. Go me, right? Nailed it. Or rather Stewart Lee has, that's the kind of thing I want to read.

The Kennet Valley Audax itself was a delight. Although I do sense a shift in the type of people doing Audax these days. Like me for a start, but I'm doing it for all the right reasons, not like these latest set of newcomers. I don't object to them being different to me, it's just that there's no room in the cafes and they should stick to their own events.

I am all for diversity in cycling. No I am. Some of my best friends and colleagues are triathletes, although I do find it a bit weird that they have huge thighs but stick-thin calf muscles. I was going to say calves, but then I thought some people might get confused and think I was talking about farming. But before long they will be bringing their families to Audax, and the whole character and culture will be destroyed.

And yes, it's a shame I have to point this out, but those last few paragraphs are satire, or what passes for it when I write.

As sportives continue to price themselves into the mainstream of capitalist society, with a few notable well-run and charity-supporting exceptions, then all the people who like a sociable day's cycling with like-minded civilised and unaggressive people, get drawn to Audax. I feel sorry for all the old-timers. I wonder if they feel their territory is being pinched, a bit like all the rabid old-school Tories see Nigel Farage camping on their lawns.

I was on old family territory myself, as my Mum was from Hungerford, and the route went past her childhood home as well as close to my grandparents last house.

In Hungerford itself we found the world's most miserable man. The café that was the control was having a bumper day, delighted to host hundreds of cyclists and sell them loads of stuff in the middle of early Spring, with sunshine and a top temperature of 16C, albeit not a mountain or pint of beer in sight.

But next door, at the Haberdashers, and despite his disposition, that is a wonderful thing to call your shop, one local spent the best part of a few hours of his Saturday prowling up and down the street, scowling and telling people not to lean their bikes up against the shops. Not just his, but any shop, including an empty and boarded up one.

As I said, a delightful day, and despite the headwind on the way out to Bratton, it was very enjoyable to be out in the warmth and the fresh air. I even got the opportunity to try out my new Heath-Robinson fix-your-broken saddlebag skills, which seemed to work admirably.

I'm sure all the newbies will be following my example, I am on the internet after all, and doing something similar next time.

And what better than a white horse to finish with, together with the wide open space of Wiltshire, and a selfie of the two most stylish riders on the event. Mainly because Jon didn't come.

I blame it on my youth

Well done Martyn. Just at the time I needed to start venturing away from the flat lands and into the hills, he came up with a dog of a route for today's ride. Trevor, Ray, James, Jon, Martyn, Peter and me from Brent Knoll to the Mendips and back.

A nice mix of stuff, a few short sharp punchy climbs, a long slog up Shipham and Long Bottom (despite getting dropped it was a PR, goes to show you never can tell), the road not my sorry arse, and some nice flat bits to recover and chat. Some days the best versions of things get discovered by accident, like Maria McKee originals on YouTube.

I even enjoyed the normally gloomy café at the bottom (that word again) of Burrington Combe. Of course it was all about my bike, an old-fashioned steel thing from Argos Racing Cycles in Bristol. Like a kid at Christmas I took out the last present I'll ever get from my Mum and Dad. Designed for Audax primarily, but good enough for bimbles like today. Or anyday in fact.

 

 

It reminded me of being a kid again, mucking about with your mates on bikes on a Saturday morning. Lots of abuse and real fun from genuine good-hearted people. Hard to find.

 

Even if their political ideas and opinions are shit.